It's a Wonderful Life
by Coseepo
Summary: Set after TGG. John is in hospital on Christmas Eve, leaving Sherlock alone. A strange man in a grey suit shows up to show Sherlock what the world would be like if he'd never been born. T for drug use in the first chapter and drug references. No Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**This was going to be a one shot, but this is just easier. This is Sherlock's version of 'It's a Wonderful Life', although it sometimes feels like A Christmas Carol. Ah well. Here it is... Hopefully I'll finish by Christmas**

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><p>Sherlock sat alone on the floor of the flat, still dressed in his pyjamas. Christmas Eve. He knew it was Christmas Eve; Lestrade had pointed it out when he had been round earlier. But so what? John was still in hospital. Mrs. Hudson was away. He was all alone. And he didn't <em>care<em> about Christmas.

He glanced over at the bare pine tree in the corner. The only thing left was the star; everything else Sherlock had taken off. John had bought them all. John wasn't here. The decorations weren't needed. But the star; the star John had actually _made, _while Sherlock watched him. It was somewhat comforting to have it there, looking down at him.

Sherlock tilted his head back, shutting his eyes. _John. _He wondered, as his fingers found the box beside him and brought it to his lap, exactly how much of Christmas day John would be conscious for. He was still in and out; and when he was in, he had no idea what was going on. Lestrade had assured him that he would be alright – Sherlock had refused to go to the hospital – but it didn't matter. Even if John made a full recovery, Sherlock doubted it would affect him much. It was all Sherlock's fault he was injured in the first place; it was unlikely that he would return to 221b.

Moriarty… when Sherlock had shot at the bomb, it was to kill Moriarty. He knew, of course, it was likely that he and John would be killed, and he could accept that. But when the ONLY person who got hurt was John…

Sherlock slowly, leisurely rolled up his sleeve, opening the box with his other hand. He opened his eyes to take up the needle, already prepared with his preferred dose of cocaine. He positioned it, slipped it into his eyes, and closed his eyes once more as he pushed down the plunger.

Sweet bliss.

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><p>"Sherlock."<p>

Sherlock had been sitting there for about half an hour. He frowned, and drowsily forced his heavy lids apart. A man stood in front of him; it was a man Sherlock had never seen before, wearing a grey suit and smart shoes. He was looking directly at him.

"How did you get in here?" he asked, sharply.

The man smiled. He reminded Sherlock of Mycroft. This thought made him frown even more. "I walked."

Sherlock looked towards the open door, and, satisfied, turned back to the man. "Alright." He forced himself into a standing position, pushing himself up the wall. "Who are you?"

"Clarence Oddbody, Angel, Second Class."

Sherlock smiled. "Ah. I should have realised. Though to be fair, it _has_ been a while since I've had a hallucination." He looked the man up and down. "Shouldn't you be wearing white, if you're an angel?"

"I find grey is a lot less conspicuous, don't you?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "That's surprisingly logical."

"Well, it would be. If your theory's right, I came out of your mind, after all."

There was a short silence as the two men looked at each other.

"You miss John."

It was a statement, not a question. Sherlock nodded. "Yes. I do."

"Tell me, Sherlock: why do you blame yourself?"

Sherlock scowled and stalked over to the sofa. He sat down, pulling his dressing ground around himself irritably. "Because it was my fault."

Clarence walked over considerably slower, and placed himself elegantly beside the young detective. "How?"

Sherlock looked at him, his expression subtly incredulous. "How is it not?" He leant back and looked forwards as he spoke, arms crossed. "Moriarty was after me. John didn't have to be involved. Even aside from that he's been in danger a remarkable number of times in relation to how long I've actually known him."

"You honestly think his life was worse for having met you?"

He sighed and uncrossed his arms, dropping them at his side. "Everyone's life is worse for having met me."

Clarence stood up slowly, and walked over to the window. Without turning round, he said "And you honestly believe that?"

"Of course."

"Alright, then. You like experiments. Let's see if you're right."

Sherlock small, condescending noise. "And how do you intend to do that?" he asked, turning around in the seat.

The suited figure turned slightly, so that his profile was silhouetted in the dwindling light. "As of now, you are no one. Sherlock Holmes will cease to exist. You have never met anyone, no one has ever heard of you. You have never been born."

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><p><strong>Please review x<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**So, quick update I know. So, I can't go into as much detail as I'd have liked to because this really needs to be finished before Christmas, and I'm very busy tomorrow. So the next chapter will be up last thing Christmas Eve.**

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><p>Sherlock stood up and stretched. "Well. This is certainly the most creative hallucination I have ever had."<p>

"Who says it _is _a hallucination?"

Before Sherlock could reply, there was a noise on the stair. Sherlock turned to face the door of the – now considerably emptier and dirtier – flat. An old woman appeared in the doorway, grasping an umbrella, pointing it at them. Both of her eyes were blackened, and Sherlock could easily see bruises under her sleeve. His mouth opened slightly.

"Mrs. _Hudson_?"

She shook the umbrella. "I've called the police. You get out of here now. My husband has been to prison you know."

"Mrs. Hudson I saw your husband die. I thought you were going away this Christmas."

"Threats won't help you," she quivered, swallowing. "You just get out."

Sherlock glanced at Clarence, who was watching him carefully. "Alright." He walked calmly towards the door. Mrs. Hudson gasped and leapt out the way as he approached, holding the umbrella out in front of her.

Sherlock waited outside for Clarence. "Alright. I'll admit that reality would be plausible. But it doesn't prove anything."

The angel's lip twitched into a smile. "We've barely even begun, Sherlock."

They walked together down the path. There were very few people about; afterall, it was late Christmas Eve. People were either at home or still in the pub. Presently they passed through into a slightly derelict estate. Clarence stopped outside a tall apartment building. Sherlock glanced at him.

"Here?"

"Here."

They stood in silence. As they stood, it began to snow. The white flecks landed in Sherlock's dark hair and on his arms. He noted how even in his pyjamas he was not cold. But then, according to Clarence, he didn't exist.

Only real people feel the cold.

They had been waiting for nearly ten minutes when Clarence nudged his companion, and pointed down the road. A figure was making its lonely way towards them. Sherlock recognised it immediately. His stomach tensed. Even with the limp, the build, the height, the way he held himself… it could only be John.

John looked up at them as he passed. He stopped. Sherlock swallowed hard, holding his friends gaze. John looked to Clarence for a moment, then back to the man in pyjamas. "Are you… would you like to borrow a jacket?"

It took Sherlock a moment to realise that he was talking to him. He snapped suddenly into life, and coughed. "No. No… thank you."

John narrowed his eyes, but nodded. He turned and disappeared into the block of flats.

"Still think his life is better without you?"

Sherlock still stared at the closed doorway. When he spoke, his voice was flat. "He's not in hospital, is he."

Clarence smirked. "Not yet."

Sherlock whipped around and stared at him. "What -"

*Bang*

His head snapped towards the upper windows to the flat, then back to the still-smug Clarence. "No…"

He ran into the building and up the stairs. "No-!"

A door at the top of the stairs was slightly ajar. He stopped, heart thumping in his chest, before tentatively pushing the door open. His breath caught in his throat. For a second, he was almost certain that his heart had actually stopped. "_No_…" It was a single, choked syllable, but was filled with more emotion than Sherlock had even felt in his life.

He took a trembling step into the room. Where he had before only been able to see John's motionless feet, the rest of his lifeless body was slowly revealed, like inching your way into freezing cold water. One hand hung off the edge of the small cot, just below it on the floor the dropped gun. At last, Sherlock could clearly see his flatmates head.

The eyes were glassy. That was the first thing Sherlock noticed. Not the clean gunshot through the temple with blood trickling down. Not the skin rapidly paling. Not he mouth, slightly open. The eyes. The glassy eyes, staring at the ceiling. Empty.

Breathing slightly raggedly, Sherlock moved swiftly into the tiny, ill-furnished flat to stand beside the army-doctor's bed. He stared down, his mouth finally closing, finally losing its dryness, his heartbeat finally normalising.

He sighed slowly. "_John._" Reaching out, he slid his friend's eyelids closed, and shut his mouth. Clarence quietly entered behind him.

"I understand," he murmured. "I… I didn't realise…" He sighed again. "I should have known. I had all the evidence. John was depressed when he was invalided back, of course he was."

"We should leave."

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "Leave? What do you mean leave? A man has just died here."

"Exactly."

Sherlock's thoughts rested for a moment on Harry. And then another thought struck him. "Mycroft."

"That's right."

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><p>"West Norwood Cemetery?"<p>

Clarence nodded.

"Look. Isn't it bad enough that my friend has just died? I don't need to see my dead brother."

The angel shrugged. "You're the one who wanted to see this." He began to walk away.

"Yes, well, that isn't _exactly _what I said, though, is it?" He walked after him.

Clarence stopped next to a small gravestone, and turned expectantly to his companion.

"You can't make me look at it, you know."

"If you don't, you won't be able to get back."

Sherlock considered this for a long time.

Steeling himself, he knelt down in front of the grave.

'Here lies Mycroft Holmes, loving son. 1966 – 1990.'

_That's it?_

Sherlock stood up quickly, still staring at the grave. "He died when he was 24. Why." He did not say it as a question.

"Same reason as John, Sherlock. Suicide."

Now Sherlock did turn around. "But that doesn't make any sense!" Sherlock exploded. "Mycroft Holmes was the most motivated person I have ever met. He always had his own way. His biggest problem ever was his weight! There is no reason why he would kill himself!"

"Mycroft Holmes was never motivated. He never had a younger brother who threatened his intelligence. He never made it in life. His genius went unappreciated and unstimulated until he was driven insane."

Sherlock's turned to look at the grave again, breathing like a bull. "Take me back," he ordered.

"Oh? And why should I do that?"

Sherlock snapped his head to the side and stared at him. "What are you talking about? I took part in your experiment. I saw all my loved ones' lives in shreds. What more do you want from me? I deserve to go home."

"Ah, but you want to go home for the wrong reasons. Come on, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned away, letting out a sharp breath. "Alright. _Alright._"

He rubbed his mouth before placing both hands on his hips. "I get it. In some weird way I fix things. I make things better outside just solving crimes. And I miss John. I just want to go back… Please."

**Review please, and Christmas wishes will rain down upon you.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Right, so, here it is. Anyone who has read any of my other stories can tell you endings are NOT my strong point. Still, I suppose this turned out alright with the amount of time I had. Enjoy, and remember to review x**

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><p>"Sherlock. Sherlock, come on… <em>Sherlock!<em>"

Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes.

Lestrade.

The detective inspector let go of Sherlock's shoulders and leant back. "Sherlock, you scared me," he said, angrily. He picked up the discarded box, and held it in front of the younger man's face. "You do realise I'm gonna have to report this?"

Sherlock smiled. "Of course, Inspector."

Lestrade looked taken aback. He opened his mouth in retort, but no sound came out. Instead, he threw the box across the floor and resettled himself. "Look, Sherlock… do you want me to stay? I don't mind. Or you could come round mine for Christmas."

"No." Sherlock pushed himself sleepily up the wall, until he was standing. "No, that's alright. You get back to your family. I was just about to head out, actually?"

"What? Where?"

Sherlock made his way sluggishly through the scattered papers and mugs toward his bedroom. "Hospital. Going to visit John."

Lestrade got up and began to follow him, but he had closed his bedroom door to get changed. The DI stood outside. "Sherlock, are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Why not? You're the one who wanted me to go down there."

"Yes, but… I don't think you're really in the best condition."

The door opened, and he was confronted with an irritated, fully-dressed detective. "I have a history and a high tolerance. I'll be quite alright." He opened the door completely and stepped out, threading his scarf about his neck. "Speaking of which, would you mind holding off your report until _after _Christmas? I'd rather not be doing community service in the holidays. John will want me."

"I… Of course, but -"

Sherlock stopped in the doorway. "Thank you, Lestrade," he said, without turning around. "For everything." And then he was gone.

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><p>Sherlock silently pushed the door open. John lay on the bed, eyes shut, chest rising and falling gently.<p>

Despite everything, despite even the fact that he had seen his flatmate _dead_ that night, Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. Seeing John like that… was part of the reason he hadn't wanted to come. Still, he was here now.

He crept over to the seat by the bed, his eyes never leaving his friend. As he sank down, he noted how uncomfortable the seat was. This was actually rather callous of the hospital, he thought. Anybody in this situation would surely be uncomfortable anyway; they really shouldn't reinforce it.

Sherlock sat. He listened. He listened to the noises of the hospital, and tried to deduce things about the workers. His heart wasn't in it. But still he listened.

At last, at long last, John's eyes opened. Sherlock gasped inaudibly despite himself, and leant forward a little. He said nothing.

John stared up at the ceiling for several moments, before his eyes drifted slowly to the left, then to the right, towards Sherlock. And he _stared_ at Sherlock.

The detective swallowed hard. "John."

For a moment, he didn't think that he would reply, until: "…Sherlock?"

Sherlock's face broke into a great smile.

"How did you get in here? It's so late."

"Mycroft, naturally."

…

"How are you feeling?"

"Better, actually," smiled John.

"Good."

John narrowed his eyes. "Sorry, have you… have you been here before? I don't remember seeing you."

Sherlock leant back in the plastic chair again and frowned. "No. Unfortunately not."

"Oh."

There was another pause.

"Sherlock?" rasped John.

"Yes?"

"What time is it?"

Sherlock got out his phone, and smiled. "02:43." He looked up. "Happy Christmas, John."

John smiled as well. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

**Please review! It only takes a few seconds to make me immensely happy... and it is Christmas after all ;)**


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